


Rapunzel's Cousin

by LilacFree



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, fairy tale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:09:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26054725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilacFree/pseuds/LilacFree
Summary: Inspired by Harry Potter, fairy tales, and Disney's Tangled.Includes Harry Potter canon-typical child abuse.Petunia loves her golden child but can't wait on her hand and foot every moment of the day.  But she is a witch, and she knows how to make the household tools do her bidding.
Relationships: Dudley Dursley & Petunia Evans Dursley
Kudos: 2





	Rapunzel's Cousin

“Mother knows best, sweetheart. Make yourself comfortable; you don’t have to lift a single rosy finger!” The woman turned aside and swapped sweet words for tart. “You, brush!” She snapped her fingers, and the brush rose and fell patiently over the vast swathes of shining golden hair. 

Yet even beside its bright mass, Dudleigh swelled plump and round and nearly as red as a tomato. She had a bowl of biscuits in her lap and holding one in each hand, she alternately took bites from each, bringing up a new biscuit when one was done.

Mother Petunia clasped her hands. “So adorable,” she cooed. “I must go out, now, darling, and bring you home more presents.” She pulled on her cloak, unable to drag her eyes from her darling. Before reluctantly leaving, she snapped a new order. “Broom, sweep!”

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.” 

Petunia let herself out on a loop of Dudleigh’s tresses.

The broom moved over the floor sweeping biscuit crumbs into the dustpan.

“Bucket!” howled Dudleigh. Green crept over the red like a tomato unripening.

The bucket hurried over and received a mass of semi-liquid biscuit.

The flannel washed, the kettle boiled, the bowl filled with sliced fresh bread daubed with butter and honey. The mug brimmed with tea flavoured sugar.

Petunia returned from her shopping trip. She pulled package after package from her bottomless bag. The latest present was a sparkling tiara that, admittedly, was dim compared to that magical hair.

Dinner cooked on the stove and the table spread with laden dishes. Petunia made magic passes in the air and wafted Dudleigh to the table. While Dudleigh ate, the bed was changed and remade, and Dudleigh’s nightgown laid out. The laundry and the dishes were cleaned.

Petunia fussed over Dudleigh’s bedtime. She charmed the bed to be soft as feathers, and adorned Dudleigh’s feet in pink bed socks knitted from thick cushy yarn. Her contented snores filled the small room. Mother Petunia sat beside her darling, endlessly running the golden tresses through her hands.

In the cupboard, the household tools curled up and slept. Dreams were dreamt.

_He tried to get out by the window, but Dudleigh’s golden locks were as slick and squishy as butter. Outside, and down, oh so far down, the grass spread itself tauntingly flat. The more he looked and yearned, the farther away and tinier the grassy spot got. Rose and berry and sloe bushes lashed their thorny tendrils about in their hunger to wrap around his body and drink of his blood._

_Dudleigh pushed him out the window and he fell, tumbling, trying to aim for the grass. The vines caught at him, tossed him about until his blood rained upon them. At last they flung him down on the grass, broken and blinded and bloodless. Even death did not free him. Greasy gold wrapped him up like a mummy and dragged him back into the window. The skillet and poker, the bread board and the pan, performed a dance of a thousand blows to pay him back for desertion to the tune of Petunia and Dudleigh’s curses._

Oh. That last part was real. It was dawn.

“Pan, cook!” screeched Petunia, and chivvied him around the room until the hearth was lit and the stove top was hot and ready for cooking.

That day, when Petunia went out, she called him over to the window to assign one more chore. “Mop, scrub!” she commanded from her seat on the windowsill.

“Yes, Aunt Petunia.”

Her pointed black hat disappeared below the window, leaving it full of blue sky. The blue sky was far away, oh so far, but it never got smaller.

“Biscuits, bake!” screamed Dudleigh and threw the empty bowl at him.

“Yes, Dudleigh.” As he did all the chores and followed all the commands, he would look at the window. The blue of the sky varied throughout the day. Sometimes clouds drifted past. He could see the tops of trees waving in the wind. Where did Petunia go? How did she get food? Where could he go? Could he live out there without Petunia to bring food, and without Dudleigh to fill his days with her needs?

One thing from his dream was true that he knew; that the golden hair that drew silken through the brush and comb was thick with grease when he tried to grasp it by the window—Petunia was a skilled witch.

  
As he swept the floor, he turned to gaze out the window. The broomstick twitched in his hands; leapt up, pressed eagerly into his grip. Whatever it urged was lost to him as Petunia climbed through the window.

She jingled. He found out why, for her sack held small metal rings. These she worked with morning and night, for metal is hard to charm, joining them together. When she had a small length of chain, she would loop it around and stare at him narrow-eyed, then go back to work.

The next day she brought a dog collar, but not a dog.

He knew it was meant for him. He wasted no more thought on fear, but took up his broom and fled for the window. He leapt, clutching the handle to his body. The bristles caught the wind and bore him up high and swift. Behind him Dudleigh wailed for biscuits and Petunia screamed curses and threw bolts of fire after him.

It was too late. He was so far and so high beyond her reach. The world spilled out around him, half as vast as the blue sky and the both of them pulled at the edges of him so that he grew to the size of a giant and like nothing that could ever fit in a cupboard again.

Yonder, past the edge of the sea of trees, pillars of stone flying bright banners rose on the horizon.

He had no name. Maybe he’d find it there.


End file.
